Shadowboxer
by Philadelphia Tuesday
Summary: Lionel wastes an afternoon contemplating possibilities. Post-ep for Skinwalker.


Disclaimer: I still don't own them. :)

* * * * * 

He has grown accustomed to her presence.  
  
Yes, that's the best way to phrase it. Impersonal, yet heartfelt. He can't tell her the truth in plainer terms, not with things the way they are now, not being the person he is. He can't tell her that he likes having her around, that he's come to enjoy her company, that he has come to depend on her.   
  
He can't tell her that he feels he's become adept at detecting her vocal shift between clipped and cordial--sometimes even downright icy--in the early mornings, to low and confidential by the time she goes home at the end of the day.   
  
It's clear, on these mornings, that she has allowed her thinking to be colored by tiresome ranting on the part of Jonathan Kent regarding the evils of capitalism and the relative virtues of the common man. It will take him all day, when this happens, to win her back to his side and convince her once more that her husband is wrong. She already knows this, but she wants to believe that Kent is right; she wants to believe she made the right decision 20 years ago.   
  
And although it is not an adjective often applied to Lionel Luthor, he likes to think he's too kind to tell her the truth. So he submits to the ritual when it is necessary and is often disproportionately pleased when it isn't. Two steps forward, one step backward.  
  
Upon their first few encounters, he barely registered her presence. She appeared to be like all the other farmers, simply standing beside her husband on all important matters, and, like him, dogmatic and aggressively downtrodden. Later, it became apparent that this was not true; in doing some cursory research, he discovered by accident that she was no typical farm wife, but the daughter of a prominent businessman, who had been on quite an upward trajectory herself before being sidetracked by a poor Smallville farmer and seduced by his mind-numbingly twee way of life.  
  
He had been mildly intrigued, then, but not enough to truly care. His mind had entirely changed on the subject that day she'd taken the newspaper, and without being asked or prompted, began to read.   
  
And now, he has grown accustomed to her presence.  
  
She is not the type of woman who will fall for a few big words and the often aphrodisiacal appeal of his name and/or his money; she is not the type of woman who will simply fall into anything at all. She will want to be convinced, pursued, persuaded.   
  
He wonders about his own motives sometimes. Is she merely another conquest, a briefly fascinating challenge? Perhaps he simply wants to wreak some havoc on that perfect little family of which his own son so blatantly desires to be a part. And then, of course, there is her resemblance to Lillian, both physically (if he remembers Martha Kent correctly) and emotionally. But that isn't it. Lillian was certainly a remarkable woman, one of the few capable of standing up to him, and he had actually loved her, briefly. Lex practically considers her a saint, and he supposes that in some ways, she might qualify. But she didn't have a head for business. That's where this one is different.  
  
And what about her? Perhaps he's reading too much into it. But he feels her standing closer than she should, sometimes; he can detect her scent, perfume probably bought for her at Christmastime by Kent. He can picture the other man standing at the counter at J.C. Penney's, hands shoved in his pockets, sheepishly asking the salesgirl what she thinks he should buy for his wife. The salesgirl chooses White Diamonds for him, and his wife is pleased to open it on Christmas morning. Now she wears it daily in the company of a man he detests. Lionel would be amused by that if it weren't so tragic. Or perhaps she has a small collection of Christmas bottles, all chosen for her by young women with nametags that read Crystal and Kelly, and this is the one she likes the best. Or the one she thinks he'll like the best.   
  
No, now he's just fantasizing about reciprocated feelings that simply aren't there, while the business day wastes away.  
  
He had hope, when she rode back to the mansion with him, after a series of particularly unsatisfying events transpired at the former office-park site. Of course she would eventually feel compelled to side with her son on the matter; how much pressure could she withstand at home each night before giving in? Frankly, Lionel was surprised she had stayed on his side for as long as she had. It was probably the death of that man's daughter; she was not above allowing her actions to be governed by sentimentality. But his hope faded as it became apparent she was only returning to collect her things. (What things? Did she keep a picture of Kent on her desk? Or Clark? Was she the sort of woman who would steal office supplies as revenge for a perceived wrong?)   
  
Was this a challenge? Was she calling him out? 

* * * * *

He sat in his office and contemplated the matter rather than returning to business, until the room grew colder and he sensed darkness falling outside. She had not interrupted him once since they had returned, but he knew she would not have gone home without a word. It simply wasn't her style, to retreat so obediently.  
  
He began to struggle to his feet, relying on the assistance of the cane, as he heard the door open slowly.  
  
"Yes?"   
  
"Oh," she said. "Do you need help?"  
  
"No, I think I can manage this."  
  
Silence. He pictured her biting her lip, perhaps, darting her eyes around the room, waiting for him to plead.  
  
"Did you want something?" he asked, and it came out sounding harsher than he'd intended. He resisted the urge to apologize, and took a few steps in the direction of her voice.  
  
"No, I was just-"  
  
"Coming in to say goodbye, were you?"  
  
"Yes, I suppose I was." There it was, the unpleasant-morning tone. He advanced a little further, and wondered how close they were now. Was she across the room, or right in front of him? He hated not being able to tell.   
  
He waited for her to speak. Nothing.  
  
"I apologize if I've made it seem as if that's your only choice." Careful. Slowly.  
  
Another pause. He stood still.  
  
"But, then, I suppose it's your own choice to make, isn't it," he said.   
  
"Well, no, it isn't," she pointed out sensibly, as he'd hoped she would, and he kept walking until he was rewarded by the scent of her perfume and her hand on his arm, briefly, to steady him as he stopped abruptly.  
  
He went in for the kill. "Do you want to leave?" he asked in a tone that said he knew perfectly well what the answer would be.  
  
Had he still had his sight, this is when he would have made his move. On the other hand, were his sight still intact, he would probably have been making it on Crystal or Kelly rather than on someone who wouldn't just be an easy lay, someone he could push off the bed when he became tired of having her around. It couldn't be like that anymore. He kept his hands to himself.  
  
"No," she finally answered, her voice low and grudging: it was apparent that she felt as reluctant as he did about revealing herself, particularly in this situation. She felt wronged; perhaps she'd take home a stapler or some paper clips. But at least she'd be coming back in the morning. 

* * * * * 

He smiles, and hoped it doesn't look smug.   
  
"Good," he says sincerely.  
  
"Well, good night, then." Lionel tries to imagine her face, her eyes flickering to his sightless ones, irrationally searching for a reaction.  
  
"See you tomorrow," he lightly offered, and a few moments pass before he hears the door close behind her.  
  
He begins to head toward the liquor cabinet, exhausted from the game he's getting a little too old or a little too tired to play. One day he'll be forced to tip his hand; tip it, or empty it, and forget the whole thing.   
  
The decision doesn't have to be made tonight.  
  
After she's gone, the scent of White Diamonds continues to linger, and as he sits and drifts away, he tries not to think about what her husband will say to her tonight. Maybe she won't listen. Maybe she'll never let him change her mind again.   
  
Or maybe he's wrong about everything, and nothing will ever change, at all. He hates not knowing what will happen.   
  
He does know one thing for sure: she's bad for business. 


End file.
